


Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

by RagingBookDragon



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Bittersweet Ending, Canonical Character Death, Heavy Angst, Memories, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25457083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RagingBookDragon/pseuds/RagingBookDragon
Summary: “Missus Kenway…it’s time.” Her lips pursed and she nodded, replying as firmly as she could muster,“I’ll be there in a moment.” Their footsteps faded and she looked to their fireplace, his face holding a rare smile in the portrait of them. She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers massaging as she hoped it would ease the heartache. It didn’t, but she didn’t have time to try and ease it. Taking a deep breath, she turned and headed for the door, stopping before it to raise the black veil over her face.
Relationships: Haytham Kenway/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

**Author's Note:**

> I cried writing this, and I hope you do too. Enjoy (not)! -Thorne

It was strange to her, the act of them growing old. So many times she’d assumed they’d die young, victims of their enemies or stray bullets. As fate would have it, they were given years to cultivate their lives and build a home. Children had never been the option between them, too many failed times coupled with dangerous lives meant their happiness could only be found in the love they shared with one another.

Still, it never bothered them. He made her smile and the warmth in his own made up for something they could never have. Married young, both of them in the beginning of their thirties, but spent years together as friends before, she was glad to be the one at his side. The years went by, truths that had sunk into the deepest, darkest depths came to light. A father avenged, and that night, she’d held him while he shed tears for a life he’d been robbed off, for the family destroyed. It pained her to watch his entire life change, to begin doubting the majority of the ones he called friends. _A lifetime of lives I’ve lived…and what do I have to show for it? A life my father would pity._ She’d taken his face in her hands, tears of her own in her eyes and denounced his claim. _Your father would be proud of you…even if this is the life you have chosen._ They grew stronger then, returning to the colonies as if conjoined at the hip, but they knew their hearts were what was intertwined.

Friends came and went, like Irish turncoats on mighty brigantines, sailing the wild seas and fearsome oceans for boxes no bigger than her forearm. She needed to send him a letter-it’d been too long since she had-and now, he’d need to know what’d become of their lives. He trusted people less and less, patience for any meddling disappearing like embers in the wind. Still though, he told her of his worries, of what bothered him, of what he wished he could change. _I’m too old to have regrets now…I don’t even know why I think this way._ Her fingers had carded through his hair that afternoon, eyes inspecting the flecks of silver in his deep coffee hair. _You’re getting old now…did you know that?_ The deep, heartwarming chuckle he’d responded with brought a smile to her lips. The thought of how young they’d been made her laugh.

Indeed, how young they’d been. She remembered but a few weeks before when he sat at the vanity, patiently watching as she brushed the tangles out of his silver hair. No longer were they young and vibrant, no, they were older and more tired. Most mornings, the two groaned as they rose from the bed, joints popping and bones creaking with each move and step. Deep lines etched onto his face, his forehead, his mouth, his eyes. Oh, but his eyes were still bright, still full of the smallest amounts of mirth he’d managed to keep with his soul. _How is it that we’re well into our fifties and you still look like a young woman?_ She snorted when he asked her, offering an explanation that solely consisted of a few short words. _Time marches across our faces…but if looks like yours more than mine._ And then his son entered the picture.

She remembered the first time she met him. All powerful and seething with rage at them and his enemies. He reminded her of a bear. When she’d told him, he couldn’t speak for some time, but perhaps it was because she was laughing too hard and too loud at his dumbfounded expression. Then the night when he came to rest in their guest room, too tired and anxious to sleep in a corner of a quiet street, forbidden from any inns for his appearance. Their conversation only heard by them and the fire as it lit the room, reflections of flames dancing across their faces. He was gone before they’d woken up the next morning, a simple letter remaining on her armchair. _Thank you._ Her lips turned upwards, but quickly fell when the worst came back around.

He was quiet that night when he came home, abnormally silent in her thought. A few probing questions had discerned that his son no longer wanted to work with him. The whiskey in their glasses seemed to reflect his son’s mood towards them now. _I’ve lost him now…he won’t trust me again._ She could tell it hurt him more than he let on. Calloused hands curled in his and he looked over, pained eyes betraying his solemn face. _There’s still a chance…let me talk to him._ She never got the chance and by the time she could’ve, it was too late.

Her steps were quick and light despite her age, and with the siege happening, it was a miracle she hadn’t been taken out by gun or cannon fire yet. Thousands of thoughts ran through her mind as she made her way into the fort, but only one seemed to rise above them all-find them before they kill one another. She turned the corner of the arch, immediately stopping when she saw a familiar set of boots, unmoving. Her heart dropped as she closed in on him and she dropped to her knees beside his body. His hands had been placed across his chest, eyes closed. An honored position to be left and found in. She didn’t need to move his hands or search for a wound, there would be no blood to stop flowing, for he was no longer there. Simply, she raised a hand, gently caressing his face, tears gathering in her eyes. _Oh Haytham…I’m sorry I was too late._ Her words prompted no response, and for the first time in years, he looked peaceful. He looked serene, like the weight of his burdens and mistakes had finally been taken from his shoulders. His peace was all she wanted for him.

She shut her eyes as the warmth spread through them, hand pressing firmly to her middle to keep her emotions at bay. He wouldn’t want her tears for him. Strength and will too keep going, that is what he wanted from her. She swallowed thickly a few times, the stubborn lump in her throat simply demanding a home in her grief. She brought up a hand to brush away the tears as a knock sounded from the hallway. Their footsteps came in after a moment, their voice soft. “Missus Kenway…it’s time.” Her lips pursed and she nodded, replying as firmly as she could muster,

“I’ll be there in a moment.” Their footsteps faded and she looked to their fireplace, his face holding a rare smile in the portrait of them. She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers massaging as she hoped it would ease the heartache. It didn’t, but she didn’t have time to try and ease it. Taking a deep breath, she turned and headed for the door, stopping before it to raise the black veil over her face. Wet warmth slid down her cheeks and a clasped hand to her mouth prevented the sob that left her. No, she knew he wanted strength and will from her…just for today…she would grieve for her love…and tomorrow she would find a way to face the days she had left.

He’d taken the journal from her when she’d arrived at the manor. They’d not spoken since the funeral; she’d never been his target. He questioned her with a certain regard of why she would part with such a thing. _I’ve read that journal from start to finish Connor…I know it by heart…it’s you who doesn’t._ Her words had only seized to confuse him, but she smiled nonetheless, leaving him with mere simple words.

_I’m old Connor…and you have your whole life and family ahead of you. I will do my best to keep him alive in my heart, and I hope you do the same._

_Why?_

_Because…there are many things you can control in this life, but there are three things you can’t._

_And those are?_

**_Who lives…Who dies…Who tells your story…And I hope you will tell his._ **


End file.
